


Capture the

by paradigmfinch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, Archery, Fun, M/M, Teenlock, dares, fytl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 19:46:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7905304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradigmfinch/pseuds/paradigmfinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is Sherlock's thirteenth summer at Mrs. Hudson’s Summer Fun-Camp! (Sherlock refuses to call it that, because it is ridiculous.) </p>
<p>Sherlock is a counselor. John is head of sport and recreation.</p>
<p>There are dares, games, and a campfire. And a game of Capture the-</p>
            </blockquote>





	Capture the

**Author's Note:**

> Written for FYTL's summer contest. Basically an American camp AU with and all-British cast.
> 
> Edit: I'm so excited, this won first place! Here is the beautiful cover by Grace at FYTL:
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> <3

“So. Have you done it yet?”

Sherlock was 19 years old this past January, which makes this is his thirteenth summer at _Mrs. Hudson’s Summer Fun-Camp!_ (Sherlock refuses to call it that, because it is ridiculous.) This place is his second home, and not just because he’s known Mrs. Hudson herself all his life.

The dusty cabins and sprawling meadows of what he emphatically called “ _Hudson’s_ ” were where he’d lost his first tooth (lower center incisor). Where he’d made his first friend (Molly). Where he’d had his first kiss (Victor), lost his virginity (Victor), and only two summers ago had his heart broken for the first time (Victor yet again). Sherlock sighed, noting the trend. It was a relief that after that infamous summer, Mrs. Hudson  refused to re-hire the counselor. Sherlock suspects Mycroftian intervention. (For once he doesn’t mind.)

It’s always the same. The wild grounds, the peeling paint and the sweet scent of hay and trees are all achingly familiar, snug like cool summer evenings wrapped up in front of a crackling camp-fire. The same friends, the same youthful giggles, the same mediocre cafeteria food.

Just one thing is different this summer. This one thing (one person) is enough to knock Sherlock out of alignment. Out of his familiar summer routine.

_(“So. Have you done it yet?”)_

Sherlock sniffs without looking away from the bracelet he’s carefully weaving from his clipboard. (It’s pattern inspired by the helix formation of DNA.) “I’m sure I don’t know to what you’re referring, Graham.”

He does know. Stupid, lovely John Watson, of course, with his fit tanned legs and enormous smile and unattainability.

“It’s Greg.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“ _Sherlock_.” Sherlock continues to ignore ‘Greg,’ hoping that one of the children will interrupt for help. Considering the largely catastrophic paper lanterns littering the workspace, it seems likely.

Sherlock surveys the children’s work, giving particular attention to Soo-Lin’s (delicately covered in Chinese script – astonishing dexterity and patience for a seven-year-old) and Jim Moriarty’s (violently splattered with liberal amounts of red paint). He adds the latter evidence to his mental catalogue of ‘Reasons Why this particular six-year-old must be watched carefully around sharp objects and campfires.’

Alas, Greg will not be swayed. “You _know_ what I’m talking about. The _dare_. Irene said-”

“That dare was obtained under duress!” hisses Sherlock, eyes sweeping the children once again to make sure they haven’t overheard. Nosy buggers.

Molly (Sherlock’s co-counselor, aforementioned first friend) slides into a plastic seat beside Greg. “Oh, are you asking about the dare then?”

“ _You_ know as well?” asks Sherlock, outraged. “How many people has Irene told?”

“Oh, just Greg and the other counselors. So that’s me, Philip, Janine, and David. Oh, and Mike. He’s one of the cooks. And I heard Mrs. Hudson added to the pool this morning.”

Sherlock’s yelped “What pool?” is covered by Greg’s dramatic groan. “Don’t remind me. I lost my ten quid last week. Remind me again why you haven’t made a move yet? It’s nearly Mid-Summer Campfire.”

“That’s just what I was going to say, Greg-darling.”

Sherlock groans, “Ugh, what am I even supposed to do about it? It’s not like I have experience with these matters. The only-” Sherlock waves a hand around uselessly, looking for a way to express his relationship with Victor that won’t offend (nosy) young ears “- _dalliance_ I’ve ever had only began when Victor shoved me up against a wall and stuck his tongue down my throat. That’s really not the approach I’d like to take.”

Molly and Greg exchange a dubious look at this proclamation, but luckily little Anthea (darling, precious Anthea) beckons “Mr. Greg!” to the children’s crafts area, and Sherlock is left to face Molly’s smug-yet-pitying look. “Whatever you decide to do, it better be quick. Mid-Summer Campfire is the night after tomorrow. And you know what happens if you don’t make your move by then…”

Sherlock lets his head slump down over the table and sighs. He is _never_ going _anywhere_ with Irene again.

 

***

_Two weeks ago._

Between two-week sessions, Mrs. Hudson’s counselors take turns having a night off or minding the older campers who remain the entire length of the summer. That night, Irene had been loudly persuading Sherlock to accompany her to a club in the nearest town when John had appeared (blue-eyed, sun-kissed and _urgh_ ), slung an arm over Irene’s shoulders, and asked Sherlock if he was coming as well.

That was _cheating_ and Irene knew it. Irene had _been there_ when Sherlock had first met “Head of Sports and Recreation” John Watson, had _heard_ the key-smash of an introduction Sherlock had attempted. It wasn’t as if Sherlock was about to _refuse_ those ocean-blue eyes.

Several hours and some liquor later, Sherlock had learned a few things about John Watson.

John Watson was (of course) _gorgeous_ when he danced - with women and men (!) – he was everything grace and power and confidence, sweat beaded down his temple, down the nape of his neck, formed dark patches on his snug tee. It didn’t help that it’d been two weeks since the summer began and John had neglected to shave. A delicious golden stubble was wrapped around that strong jaw, that sculpted chin, that--

“Stop moping about the bar and go dance with him!” Irene rudely interrupted his daydreams with a (pointy) elbow to the rib cage (between right false ribs 8 and 9). Sherlock scowled into his martini, grumbling.

“What, is the great Sherlock Holmes, scared?” Irene asked teasingly (knowingly).

“’M not scared.” The words didn’t sound as fierce after having been plied with drink. He must take more care to enunciate properly.

“In that case you wouldn’t mind taking part in a little dare, would you?”

“Is this going to be like that time you dared me to have a triple shot of tequila?”

“That was twenty minutes ago.”

“Thus demonstrating the validity of the question.”

“Ugh, how do you still sound all _fancy_ after all that liquor?” Irene complained, shoving Sherlock with her shoulder. He smirked at her, smug. “Anyways, don’t forget about this new dare.”

Sherlock waited.

“Well?”

“Well what?” Irene returned, with a confused scowl.

Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh. He rather adored this girl, red talons, dares, and all. “What’s this new dare you mentioned?”

Irene’s eyes brightened instantly. “Yes! The dare! Hang on a mo’,” she said as she began digging in her purse. She found her prize and began squinting down into the blue light of her phone, pulling up an application.

Irene cleared her throat and straightened her back as she held the now recording device between herself and Sherlock. “I do dare thee, William Sherlock Scott Holmes--” here she had to stop for a cackle at Sherlock’s dark glower (Irene was given that information in secrecy). She cleared her throat and started again, carefully not slurring. “Sherlock. I dare you to make a move on John Watson before Mid-Summer Campfire.”

“What? N-no, I don’t think-” even in his less than sober state, Sherlock knew that was _not_ a good idea.

“ _Under threat_ ,” Irene continued, speaking into the microphone, “that should you not make a move yourself, _I_ shall tell John that Sherlock Holmes thinks John Watson is nothing less than _sex on two legs_.”

Sherlock stared at Irene, open mouthed and horrified. Irene raised a single, sculpted eyebrow. She had been his friend for a decade, he knew this was no empty threat. He closed his eyes, defeated.

“I accept your dare,” he grumbled, sour at losing to Irene. If John was going to find out about his pathetic crush, it might as well be on Sherlock’s terms.

“Oh, and look who’s heading this way.” (Sherlock very deliberately did not look away from the bar top.)

“Hey you two,” John said as he dropped into the bar seat on Sherlock’s other side. Sherlock heard Irene say something pointed about going to dance and _leaving the two of you alone_ before strutting away.

Infuriating, lovable bint.

“So what’s this about a dare?”

“Oh. Uh, a dare? What dare? Ha-ha, I hardly know what you mean.” Sherlock tittered. _Tittered._ He was never going to survive the night. The potent combination of tequila and John’s glittering blue eyes was lethal. It would kill him.

“Hm, let me try for a guess, then…Is this ‘dare’ how you ended up counselor to the littlest campers? I’ve been wondering.” There was sincere curiosity in his eyes and Sherlock was so gone on him it was unbearable. He _wasn’t supposed to let this happen_ , not after Victor.

“Uh, no. I prefer working with the young ones.” Sherlock answered truthfully, knowing that if he didn’t speak there was a good chance he’d do something stupid like kiss John. If he was going to let John know how he felt, it would be slowly. (Softly.)

John’s face was a picture of shock. “You _like_ those demonic little buggers?” Sherlock burst out laughing at John’s expression. Retaliating, John swatted at him until his chuckles quieted. “But seriously, you do? I have to work with all ages as the Recreation counselor, and it’s by far hardest to keep order with the little ones.”

Sherlock smiled a bit at John while he tried to think about how to respond (it really was a bit hard to think properly). It was evident from John’s fond tone and upward tilt to his mouth while speaking that he really didn’t mind how excitable the young children were.

“I suppose that’s part of the reason I like them. Little kids do what they want, when they want. They’re open books. Sure, they can be sneaky, but they’re not duplicitous and false like adults so very often are.” Sherlock cleared his throat, realizing he might be revealing too much. But John was leaning in, his face so damn _open_ and the words kept coming. “Besides. The younger ones don’t yet understand that I am…unusual. They see me as someone who knows how to tie their shoelaces, who will carry their pack when it gets too heavy, who will…dry their tears when they miss their mums. To them I’m not the loner with no friends, the _freak_ who studies cadavers and went to uni at fifteen. I’m just…Sherlock, I suppose. It’s simpler, with them.”

All around them, the club was filled with movement and sweat and chatter, clinks of glasses and the thrum of pop songs. Between John and Sherlock, there was a quietness, an intimacy that Sherlock realized too late in his tequila-fuddled mind that he had woven with his words. _Damn_ Irene and her dares and her insistence on coming to a club of all places on their night off. She knew he was a lightweight.

“I don’t think you’re a freak.”

Sherlock shut his eyes, the better to let those words, freely given by John Watson, brush over him.

“You’re _not_ a freak.” John repeated, with conviction. “And I’ll pummel anybody who says different. Who says that about you anyways, you’re the best loved counselor Mrs. Hudson has got, far as I can tell!”

Sherlock felt a heat rising under his collar as the fierceness flashed in John’s eyes when he swore to…defend his honor? Nobody had done that for him in a long while. Well, nobody from real life.

He explained this to John, “ _Hudson’s_ isn’t the real world.” Ignoring raised eyebrows, he ploughed on. “I’ve been coming here every summer, for the entire summer, since I was six years old. My parents like to travel and Mrs. Hudson is a second mother to me. Coming back every year, I suppose I became…a fixture. Like the old barn door that creaks open when there isn’t wind, or the mural inside the canteen that Mrs. H swears up and down _isn’t_ of an enormous marijuana plant. Something odd, not quite in place, but accepted for what it is. And when I got too old to be a camper, Mrs. Hudson hired me as a counselor. The campers and staff take me for granted, simple as that.”

John seemed unconvinced, but conceded with a nod and changed the subject. “So…you mentioned cadavers? Are you a med student?”

“No, but you are.”

“What? I haven’t told anyone at camp about that.”

_Damn_ his alcohol loosened tongue.

John’s eyes were wide with…something. Not disgust, anyways, so Sherlock took a risk and went on: “You didn’t have to. I can tell just by looking at you that you’re a med student in London, working your way through a medical degree with minimal student loans. You have an alcoholic younger sibling who you worry about and are estranged from your parents.” Sherlock watched John’s jaw dropping incrementally with every word spoken. The words kept coming, explanations this time (second hand trainers, engraved phone, supplementary first aid kit and the ease with which he used it when the children scraped themselves up). Eventually Sherlock ran out of explanations and was forced to let the silence blanket itself over them.

 “I mean. I mean…I’m. I’m an aspiring detective.”

“What?”

Sherlock waved a floppy hand in the space between them. “The cadavers.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock cringes. “Yu _p_.”

 “That was bloody _brilliant_.” John finally says, eyes _shining_.

“Oh?” (Strangled, bewildered).

John leaned in close, eyes dark and Sherlock thought maybe…and then John said, “ _Yup.”_

They were both still laughing when an out-of-breath Irene came back to the bar and announced that their cab back to camp had arrived.

 

***

 

_Present: the morning before Mid-Summer Campfire_

How had Sherlock lost track of time so quickly? Nearly a fortnight has passed since _The_ _Dare_ had been issued. That means he has two days. Well, today and most of tomorrow. Today and most of tomorrow and then it’s Mid-Summer Campfire, and this time Sherlock is absolutely going to _kill—_

“Sherlock! Molly! Over here with your lot!” John calls out from the equipment shed. “I’ve set up our space on the main lawn, but first we need to get all of you set up with proper protection.”

“Protection?” asks little Mary, eyes alight with curiosity. “What are we doing today, Mr. John?”

John crouches down so that he’s on the same level as her and the half-dozen six- through eight-year olds, smiling broadly. (Stupid handsome face.)

“Today, Miss Mary, we are doing _my_ personal favorite activity, as a special treat for your last day of camp. Archery!”

The children all cheer, more a product of John’s enthusiasm than anything else. Sherlock watches with amusement (and more than a little empathy) as Mary blushes and ducks her head in the face of a megawatt John-Watson smile.

Sherlock sidles up to John as the man begins distributing child-sized arm guards and finger tabs. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” He’s eyeing Jim’s hungry look at the bin full of arrows. John follows his gaze and grins.

“Don’t worry about it, Sher. Worst these arrows can do is give you a spectacular bruise. I know first-hand, I’ve taught archery to little kids before and they don’t have the best aim.”

Sherlock merely hums, not convinced, but largely distracted by the nickname so casually bestowed. At least it wasn’t _Sherl_. Soon the group is traipsing through the morning fog and still-wet grass towards three round sacks, a bull’s-eye printed on each one.

John marks out a line fairly close to the targets and gives the wide-eyed children instruction on how to shoot an arrow. The added commentary about Robin Hood, Green Arrow, and Katniss Everdeen magnifies the wonder and excitement blooming undisguised on the children’s faces. John distributes blunted arrows and steps back to allow them to try.

After several closely monitored rounds, none of the children has managed contact with their target, and frustration is thick in the air.

“This is _stupid!_ ” calls Henry eventually. “It’s probably not even _possible._ ” Sherlock smirks quietly at the boy’s dramatics, while Molly admonishes the boy gently (“ _Henry...”_ )

John only continues to smile encouragingly. “It just takes practice, Henry. You’ll get it soon enough.”

“Oh yeah?” Jim asks. “Well, we wanna see YOU try it!” His calls are echoed by the rest of the children.

“Oh, _do_ be a good sport and give us a show, _Mr_. John,” chimes Sherlock with a smirk. He ignores the sly expression Molly is definitely directing towards him.

Rolling his eyes, John yields. He picks up his bow and an arrow, stands at the line about 5 meters from the targets, and _shifts_. Muscles pull taught, brow furrows, and eyes sharpen and focus. John pulls the string back, takes a slow breath, and releases. The arrow whistles through the air and–

_Thwack!_

Bull’s eye.

Complete silence for a moment followed by the renewed delight of small voices.

“Show us again!”

“Mr. John that was _brilliant!_ ”

“Do it again!”

“Lucky shot.”

The last, spoken in a much deeper timbre, makes John turn towards Sherlock, smile modest and eyebrow raised. “Oh you think so, do you?” Sherlock doesn’t know what made him challenge John’s skill – part of his mind went offline at seeing the man so obviously in his element, but he’s not going to back down now. Sherlock crosses his arms and raises a brow, standing by the challenge.

John aligns himself with the second target, and makes twenty paces further from the children’s line. He raises bow and arrow, pulls the string taut and –

_Thwack!_

(Impossible.) Or. No. Delightfully, maddeningly ( _arousingly),_ improbable.

More cheers. John lines up with a third target, now perhaps 30 meters away, and lets another arrow fly.

_Thwack!_

Sherlock doesn’t need to look at the target to know that it’s hit its mark. He doesn’t need to hear the deafening cheers. John smirks, looks directly at Sherlock, and winks.

Newly enthused, the rest of the morning proceeds much better for the children. They are all able to hit some part of the target within the hour, although nobody hits the center.

Molly manages to hit the white outer ring when she takes her turn. Sherlock misses entirely, arrow flying wide and landing in some tall grass beyond the lawn. He looks in time to see John’s teasing grin. (Sherlock doesn’t mind much that he saw, if it means John’s eyes were on him.)

Once the morning ends and they’ve sorted away the equipment, Molly ushers the children towards the cafeteria for lunch, John and Sherlock lagging behind.

“So. Crack shot?”

John raises a hand to the back of his neck, apparently embarrassed. “Er, yeah. Sorry about that, I usually don’t show off in front of the kids.”

“But they loved it!”

“Some of them – usually the younger teenagers – get discouraged. But apparently you bring out the competitor in me.” John winks up at Sherlock (the second wink bestowed in as many hours) as he holds the door of the cafeteria open. Sherlock flushes lightly and ducks inside, heading for his preferred table. John follows, and the two of them begin to serve themselves water and lunch.

“Where’d you learn to shoot?” Sherlock asks, wanting to talk but still cautious. He has only a handful of hours to find a way to slip in “oh and by the way I have a massive crush on you.”

“Army brat,” John says around a mouthful of potato. “Grew up all over the world, traveling with my da. He taught me to shoot practically soon as I could lift a gun. Mum was horrified.” John grins, but the words sound wistful. Parents dead then, not estranged. Perhaps best not to bring that deduction up just now.

“Are you planning on joining the army as well? To pay for school?” Sherlock asks, like he’s an interviewer, and feels stupid. Sherlock _hates_ feeling stupid.

“Nah. I spoke to a recruiter and he said the army would probably want to train me as a GP, but I want to specialize. Surgery, if I’m good enough, but that means I have to pay my own way. The job this summer was a real stroke of luck. It was either this or stripping.”

Sherlock chokes on his water, feels it welling up through his nose and behind his eyes. John thumps him on the back, chuckling. “All right, there, Sher?”

“Erm. Yes. Wrong pipe.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure that job offer was a joke, in any case.”

Thinking back to the time John had removed his shirt in the middle of a football match, exposing tight, tanned muscles slicked with sweat, Sherlock rather thinks the offer was genuine. Feeling a blush rise in his cheeks, Sherlock looks around the table for a source of distraction. He finds it in Mary, who is frowning, eyes darting between himself and John.

“I think your admirer is getting jealous,” Sherlock murmurs, tilting his head in the young girl’s direction. John flicks his eyes to Mary and then back to Sherlock, lips curling at the corners.

“Can I tell you something, Sherlock?” John asks, leaning across the table.

“What?”

John presses his jaw along Sherlock’s, and whispers in his ear, “Maybe she should be.” With that parting blow, John Watson gets up and walks away, leaving Sherlock gaping like a fish at his retreating form.

“Do close your mouth and at least _try_ to be subtle about checking out his arse in front of the children, won’t you?”

“ _Shut up_ , Irene.”

 

* * *

 

The next day (the day of Mid-Summer Campfire, Sherlock’s brain screams at him the second he reaches consciousness) is busy. The morning and most of the afternoon are spent packing up all the campers who are leaving while keeping an eye on those who will stay. The parents are tedious, but Sherlock the goodbye hugs aren’t _entirely_ unpleasant (little arms around his neck and sniffled goodbyes).

It takes hours as he has to distract a distressed Henry from his mother’s extreme tardiness with hopscotch and football on the tarmac until the blasted woman _finally_ arrives just gone five. Henry leaps into his mum’s arms, Sherlock throws the boy’s bag into the back, and finally sighs in relief to see the car drive away.

 (Molly’s voice, a bit timid, behind him.) “So. You ready to head down to the campfire?”

Only then does Sherlock realize the implication of Henry’s departure.

“Oh God. Where’s Irene?” Sherlock asks, panicking, already running. He needs to find her, he hasn’t had a proper chance, he’ll just have to bribe her somehow, barter a few more days, _anything_. He’s sprinting down the dusty paths of _Hudson’s_ , all well documented in his mind palace, dodging trees and teenagers, set unerringly towards the gravel fire pit at the center of camp.

Chest heaving, he arrives, takes in the other counselors and the scant campers who are old enough to stay on, rapid gaze skittering around the scene.

And-

Oh _._

Oh, please God, _no._

But there they are, and it’s happening, right this exact second, and he can’t do anything about it.

He’s too late.

There is Irene, speaking intently to John, heads bent towards each other, John’s brow furrowed and forehead crinkled in confusion.

Oh, _God_. This is the most mortifying thing that has ever happened to anyone. Ever. Sherlock does a 180 degree turn, and beelines towards a nearby shed, needing to hide, needing to get his hectic thoughts in line. The shed’s musty, dark interior soothes him a little as he breathes deep, tries not to have a panic attack, tries to slow down his thumping heart rate (85 beats per minute and gradually dropping). All he has to do is to tell John it was a joke. That Irene has a twisted sense of humor, that Sherlock would _never_ —

The door opens. A figure slips in, trips over something, grapples around for a light switch. Recognizing the man even in the darkness, Sherlock’s vocal chords decide to make an awful squeaking sound.

“Hello? Sorry, is someone in here?”

Sherlock clears his throat, searches for a steady voice. “Hello, John.”

“Oh. H-hi Sherlock. Sorry, I came in here to--” John’s fingers find the light switch, and a bare bulb illuminates the space with yellow light. John’s typically open face is crumpled, tight. It is Irene’s fault. “I was just—looking for a place to cool down.”

Something angry and hot and irrational begins to seethe in Sherlock’s chest. “Oh, were you really? _Irene_ didn’t tell you I was in here?”

“What? I mean, Irene said—”

“I know what she said!” He all but shrieks. In the startled silence that follows, the fight, the _rage_ leaves Sherlock. He feels limp and exhausted. Defeated. “Could you maybe just…pretend she didn’t say anything? We have another month of camp to get through.”

It’s quiet for a long moment, Sherlock growing redder, eyes landing anywhere but at John’s face.

“Listen—” John clears his throat, straightens his posture, and doesn’t continue until Sherlock’s gaze meets his. “Sherlock. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but Irene told me about what happened two summers ago. She told me about a _pillock_ named Victor you were apparently dating, and what he did…how you found him in bed with another bloke during your night off.” Sherlock winces, and John catches the expression. “I tried to stop Irene when I figured out what she was telling me, it didn’t seem like her story to tell, but she was bloody single-minded. Just kept talking, followed me when I tried to walk away. She…told me how you were her best friend and that if I jerked you around that she would come after me. God, I think she mentioned something about having a whip? I was mostly not listening by that point, just trying to process what she was talking about. So…do you want to tell me what that was about?”

Sherlock only gapes, stunned silent.

John stuffs his hands in his pockets and returns his gaze to the ground where his toe is scuffing at the dusty wood-plank floor. He takes in an audible breath before he continues. “I think- I hope anyways, I have an idea why she told me all that, but it’s still unfair that I heard all about your shitty ex and you don’t get to know about mine. So. Here goes.”

Sherlock lifts his head to stop John (or to listen more closely, he’s not sure). A sluggish bubble of hope expands in his chest as John begins speaking.

“I always had girlfriends. It was never a problem finding someone to date, even when da was dragging me and Harry around the world, base to base. There were always other families around, other kids. When he got stationed in Afghanistan, I was seventeen and I met a boy named James.” John’s voice catches on the name, pain visible on his face. Sherlock hates it.

“John, you don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do actually. James and I were best friends, and everything was new and difficult, but we figured out that it was more than just friendship between us, eventually. He was the reason I could admit to myself for the first time that I was bisexual, and, _Christ_ , I thought I was so in love with him. I’m not so sure anymore…Well, James’ father was a real dick, made James call him “sir” and “major” instead of just “dad.” And he never paid any attention to his kids. James, he—he lost it one day. Planned for his dad to catch us, one time, you know, _together_ , without telling me. As if, to James, our relationship was just about spiting his dad, about shocking him, about _making_ him pay attention. I was so heartbroken. It doesn’t make any sense, but I haven’t seriously dated any blokes since then. I wasn’t sure I would ever want to again.”

Sherlock wants to wrap this small, spectacular man in a hug and never let go. Instead, he asks (proud that his voice doesn’t falter), “Why are you telling me this?”

John looks up, takes a step towards Sherlock. Another. In the small shed, two steps bring them chest to chest, breath to breath. John’s gaze locks on Sherlock’s, his hand reaching up to brush a curl behind Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut, and John leans up to brush his lips along Sherlock’s jaw, barely touching. A shudder licks down his spine. “Potential boyfriends should know the worst about each other.”

“Boyfriends?” Sherlock repeats. ( _Repeats._ )

John shrugs, but his tongue darts out to lick his lip nervously. “If you’ll have me.”

Sherlock wants to kiss John, properly this time, but his smile is so big, he’s afraid they’ll just knock teeth and bump noses. He settles for saying, “John,” as he throws his arms around his sturdy waist, the better to bury a smile against John’s neck. They stumble into a shelf with the force of it, but John catches them.

John hums in assent, pleased, his nose buried in Sherlock’s curly hair. “As much as I’d like to continue, I’d rather make some memories with you straight away, and this shed smells of stale sweat and rubber. Let’s go let Irene feel smug, yeah?”

They walk out of the shed holding hands to raucous cheers, and the sight of Irene idly counting her winnings.

Eventually the sun goes all the way down, the fire is built, and Sherlock sits with John’s arm around him. Mike brings around soup and croque monsieurs fresh from the kitchens. (“It’s grilled cheese, Sher.”)(“Don’t be a plebian, John”). Sherlock makes sure to glare at Irene instead of giving her a grateful look. He’s pretty sure she understands anyway.

John kisses him for the first time in full view of everyone.

“It’s a good thing Mary wasn’t here to see that,” Sherlock gasps, dizzy and giddy.

“Eh, I’m pretty sure she was using me to get to David,” John replies, tilting his head towards one of the mid-year counselors.

They giggle together and watch the fire’s embers die down, never not touching.

 

***

 

_Something like an epilogue (four weeks later.)_

“Alright troops, listen up!” John scans the faces before him, waiting patiently for the chatter to quiet. Sherlock likes to call this his Captain Voice. Particularly when he uses it in his too-small bunk. Alas, there’s no time to follow that train of thought at the moment.

“This is your last afternoon before summer ends, do you know what that means? It’s time for the ALL-CAMP CAPTURE THE FLAG SHOWDOWN!” There are cheers and shouts, and this time it’s more difficult to get everyone’s attentions refocused on him. Sherlock is smiling up at him from the grass, sweet and adoring, and John has to work to tear his gaze away as he explains the rules. “The objective is simple: to take your opponent’s flag and bring it back to your home territory. If you get tagged on your opponent’s turf, you get sent to jail. You can be released from jail by your own teammate’s rescue. There will be no pushing, or tripping, or physical violence.” Captain’s Voice having imparted the seriousness of this last, John concludes, “Greg tells me you lot picked Molly and myself as team captains, so we’ll take turns picking soldiers for each side. D’you mind if I go first, Molls?”

Molly rolls her eyes. “As if I would dare. Go ahead, then.”

“Oh, alright. Sherlock! Come on over to team ‘Winners!’” There are “aww”s and “eww”s in equal volume as Sherlock moves to stand behind John’s shoulders, offering a kiss on John’s cheek as he passes. Their relationship has been a great source of amusement and distraction for everyone on camp these past few weeks. Many counselors and some campers had known and universally hated Victor. Luckily they found John a vast improvement. Had they not, John suspected he’d have made himself some enemies, and quickly. His boyfriend was utterly oblivious to the loyalty he inspired in these kids.

Once even teams of twenty were selected, John had his team huddle up on their side of the main lawn to discuss strategy.

The game proceeded apace, John launching a strong offensive attack against Molly’s clever defense. Mrs. Hudson was making a dashing attempt for Molly’s flag when Greg sneaks up behind and tackles her into a bear-hug, towing her along towards ‘jail.’

Sherlock, beside John, gasps in outrage. “They can’t just take Mrs. Hudson!” he cries, and before John can say or do anything, his lovely, ridiculous boyfriend is sprinting across the line into enemy territory. Sherlock dodges and weaves around the other teams’ players in order to tap Mrs. H out of jail. John is laughing at what a sap Sherlock becomes for Mrs. H when it happens. On his path back to safety, tiny Jim Moriarty barrels wildly towards Sherlock’s legs, and trips him up.

John’s amusement dies as he watches Sherlock clamber from a tangled heap and start limping towards the enemy jail.

 “Oi!” John calls, concerned. “You alright, love?”

“Just twisted my ankle!” Sherlock calls back, waving a hand. John is unconvinced, and his care-taking instincts are screaming to get Sherlock back by his side.

“You know you can forfeit if you’re injured, don’t you?” John calls from one side of the line.

“I wouldn’t give Molly the satisfaction!” John can spot the pout from here. Good God, John loves this man.

“Right then,” John says to himself, rubbing his palms together as he thinks. “Mrs. H, Anthea, Jeanette, David! Over here!” He leads the children, David, and Mrs. H to a spot out of the enemy team’s hearing.

He sets a very serious expression on his face. “As your captain, I bring you together as a special operations unit.” Anthea squeals at this, happily jumping from foot to foot. “One of our own is injured, and stranded in enemy territory. For the five of us, this is no longer a game of ‘Capture the Flag.’ It is now ‘Capture the Sherlock.’” Seeing their serious nods – and a couple of smirks – John lays out their strategy.

“Anthea, you’ll go first, distract their first line of defense. Do your adorable face with the big eyes that makes Greg melt – yes, that one, good girl. Jeanette and David, you two will follow, split directions and take the attentions of the jail guards. Mrs. H, you trail them a moment later to make sure everyone on the far side of the field is sufficiently distracted. Molly wouldn’t dare tag you. I’ll sprint in, get Sherlock out of there, and get us back. Anyone who gets jailed for the sake of the mission, we’ll launch a secondary rescue mission for you. Everyone understand? Any questions? Good. Team break. Operation: Capture the Sherlock…GO!”

The plan goes off without a hitch, Molly hesitating over pursuing Mrs. H long enough for John to dart through and reach the small square of grass where Sherlock is reclined.

“Ready to go, love?”

“ _John._ You do realize that with this ankle I can hardly run back, right?” Sherlock slants an amused grin up at him, eyes sparkling, curls falling into his eyes.

“Oh, that shouldn’t be a problem,” John returns, bending down and scooping Sherlock into a bridal style carry. Sherlock makes a very satisfying _squawk_ that John must remember to tease him about later.

Not wasting a moment, John runs, Sherlock in his arms, making a wide arc around Molly’s guards. Sherlock is still giggling into his neck and clutching him tightly when John crosses the line and deposits the man on his feet. Sherlock clears his throat, and brushes imaginary lint from John’s shoulders. He’s adorably red and not meeting John’s eyes. “Well. Thank you, Captain.”

They lose five key people to the other team’s jail during Sherlock's rescue mission and his subsequent attempts to free a pouting Anthea. Molly takes the opportunity to launch a successful counter-attack on John’s flag.

John makes a show of shaking Molly’s hand, a model of good sportsmanship for the kids and all that. Luckily no one on John’s team looks too upset, grinning and chatting with their friends across the line. John spots Anthea very seriously shaking Jim’s hand. John turns his gaze back to Sherlock, who is standing on one foot like a bloody flamingo.

And John loves him _fiercely_.

He’ll get around to saying it, sometime soon. Perhaps once they’ve settled into the Baker Street flat Mrs. H had offered them for the fall.

For now, he takes Sherlock around the waist and helps him limp over to a bench where John had stashed a medical kit in case of game injuries. He wraps and ices Sherlock’s ankle quickly and confidently, avoiding eye contact lest he lose all sense of medical professionalism.

“Looks like a pretty minor sprain. You’ll need to keep it elevated tonight, I’ll get you some water and paracetamol back at the cabin. And remember to ice it _regularly_ , or your ankles will swell up like a pregnant woman’s.”

“Hm, I don’t know John. That sounds like an _awful_ lot of work.” Sherlock scoots towards John, taking his hands from where they are stroking his uninjured ankle into his own and all but climbing into his lap. “I might need someone with medical expertise to monitor my recovery.”

“Is that so?” John asks, nuzzling his nose across one perfect cheekbone. Sherlock hums, and pulls back just far enough so that their lips can brush. It’s chaste and perfect: an affirmation of the steady affection between them.

They startle apart when the predictable chorus of “Eww!” and “Aww!” swells around them. Sherlock buries a blushing face in John’s chest.

John clutches him harder, strokes a hand up and down his boyfriend’s spine. Sherlock had told John early on that _Mrs. Hudson’s Camp Summer Fun-Camp!_ wasn’t reality, that it existed on another plane, cozy and perfect, secluded in hazy warmth and the laughter of young voices.

John rests his head atop Sherlock’s, and breathes him in. If that’s the case, then John can’t wait to take their perfect slice of fantasy back into the real world.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
